by Sharon Page
Sinclair came up behind her. “Don’t run, Po—Miss Love. Are you all right? Did that shock you?”
She couldn’t run anymore. Not in the wild wind. So she turned. She lifted her chin. “Did you really do things like that at your parties?” It was a silly question. Of course he had.
He looked suddenly awkward, which surprised her—that he would be self-conscious. “Yes, Portia. That is exactly what happens in orgies.”
She lifted a brow. “Is that really better, more exciting, than sharing lovemaking with someone special, someone you love?”
He didn’t answer, but pain was written on his face.
She pulled her hair back—a curl had blown into her face. “That’s what you traded my love for? Women who put their breasts in your face, then into the faces of other men?”
This was wrong of her—she was behaving judgmentally when she’d almost been crippled with lust and desire just watching. She had never been hypocritical in her life.
He took a step closer and bent his head so he could look her right in the eye. “I was wrong. I was a damned fool.”
She couldn’t admit it to him, but when she saw Sadie on top of the earl’s face, she’d remembered Sinclair doing that to her.
And when she saw the Incognita take that long thing into her mouth, she’d thought . . . what would it be like to do that to Sinclair? Would it thrill him? What would it feel like? Taste like? She had held his erection in her hand. She remembered how big and hard it had felt. How hot it had been against her palm. The thought of sucking on it and making him moan? Meltingly arousing.
His lips were close to hers. His wide, soft lips. Ten years ago, he’d kissed her and made her melt.
She hadn’t kissed for ten years. Ten years!
She couldn’t stand it anymore.
Her fingers went up and she touched his jaw—the strong line of his jaw. The bristle of his stubble tickled her. “You truly regret ten years of sex with women like Sadie and her dangerous bosom?”
“Yes.” It came out husky and deep. He was so close she heard it over the wind. “It was like an addiction for me. When I lost you, I gave in to it.”
“An addiction? I don’t understand.”
“It’s a craving, like one for alcohol or opium. It consumed me. I needed wilder and wilder things to arouse me and capture my attention. I did things—things I will never talk of. What you saw tonight was simple, mild group sex—”
“Mild!” she gasped. Her cheeks burned.
“I’m sorry you were shocked.”
“Not shocked . . . exactly.” The words came out in breathy patches.
He stared. “You weren’t shocked,” he repeated.
“It was . . . actually interesting.”
“Portia, you were aroused by it?” He looked stunned.
She blushed ever harder behind the mask.
Then he closed the last inch of distance between them, with the wind howling about them, and his lips gently caressed hers. It was like she’d touched a shooting star with her mouth. Heat and sparks rushed through her.
Sinclair deepened the kiss, opening his mouth, and kissing her in a lush, earthy way. His tongue came into her mouth, warm and teasing.
It was so intimate to be kissed with her mouth open. So scandalously intimate. Portia moaned. She leaned against his chest. She slipped her hands up to his shoulders. Firm and broad. Wider and more muscled than they were when he was a young, beautiful man of nineteen.
She kissed him back, moving her mouth and moaning softly. Devouring him like he was devouring her.
He’d kissed her like this on the night they became engaged. Kissed her senseless. Until she ached and was so scorching hot, she was surprised she hadn’t set the sofa on fire.
Her fingers trailed along his shoulders, sliding along the exquisite fabric of his tailcoat. His mouth teased and tormented hers, making her throb deep inside. Throb with need.
He lifted her suddenly, his hands under her bottom. She loved the sensation of his large hands there. He carried her and she suddenly felt the stone wall of the house press firmly against her back.
Would he do as he did on the night he asked her to marry him? Make her come, as he’d called it?
She panted into his mouth. She wanted to come again. To feel that glorious explosion of pleasure. But she’d loved him back then. They didn’t have love now. How could she still want pleasure with him?
She was being dangerously weak.
She pushed against his chest—it was rock hard under her palms.
Sinclair drew back, breathing hard. “What’s wrong?”
“I can’t do this. With you, I turn into a hen-witted fool. I suddenly am willing to do erotic things with you, even though I know there will never be marriage or love or respectability. I feel this wanting deep inside, but I know I’m just being a complete idiot.”
Portia turned and walked away from him, toward the terrace doors. Footsteps pounding on the flagstones told her he was following yet again. “What if I’d realized I love you?”
Oh Lord. Such words. They gripped her heart. They begged her to stop and listen.
No.
“It’s too late. I couldn’t trust you. This is your world—you’ll go back to it eventually.” She kept walking. A stone wall edged the terrace and she followed it with no idea where she was going to go. She wouldn’t be able to talk to anyone tonight. She stopped and turned. “I want to go to bed—to sleep. I’m exhausted. I can’t face anything more tonight. But where can I sleep? There is only your bed.”
Suddenly, she was almost in tears. She felt both hot and ice-cold inside.
“You may have it,” he said gallantly. “I’ll find another bed tonight.”
“I suppose you can find one easily.” She hated how obviously hurt she sounded.
Yet he appeared oblivious. He nodded. Then said, “There are a lot of empty rooms in this house.”
He meant an empty bed? Not one occupied by another woman. Or women. That startled her. Yet she was not going to be in love with him ever. Why should it matter to her?
She’d had a wonderful kiss—but there could never be another one.
He grasped her hand. “Portia, lock your door tonight. The more I think about it, the more likely I feel Willoughby is involved. I saw how he invited you to join in at the orgy. He was watching you. Kidnapping you is the kind of nasty thing he would do. I intend to confront him over this. But I need to know you are completely safe.”
“I’ll lock it, push a chair against it, push the wardrobe against it, if I can.”
“Good.”
With that, he escorted her upstairs. Once he left her in the room, she diligently turned the key in the lock.
But she knew that was she really wanted to do was protect herself against this mixed-up feeling of emptiness and need, of fear and yearning.
It was the most frightening thing she’d ever felt. Wanting to go back to where she was ten years ago and feel passion all over again.
Even knowing how horribly it had ended.
* * *
Portia couldn’t sleep. Even though she was exhausted from having been kidnapped, from being tied to a bed, from witnessing a man’s death—and some rather shocking sexual antics—she just could not fall into slumber.
She lay with her eyes wide open.
Had Sandhurst been poisoned?
By whom? Which of these people who had come to an orgy for wanton sex had done such a thing?
The door rattled.
Oh heavens, who was there? Her heart thundered. She sat up in bed, staring at the door handle. It was locked, the key on her bedside table.
The rattle sounded again, sharp and urgent.
It wasn’t coming from the door.
Glass-paned doors led off Sinclair’s bedroom to a small balcony. The wind off the ocean buffeted them, pushing them to strain against the bolt that held them closed. That was causing the rattle.
Portia got out of bed. She’d slept in a filmy whi
te silk nightdress. It had been brought to her by the maid who told her it had also been left for the guest of the Duke of Sinclair. She had questioned the maid, whose name was Ellie, but the young woman had known only what she’d been directed to do by written instructions from Lord Genvere.
Where was Sinclair? Had he gone to the orgy after she’d gone to bed? Was he in bed now? Was he really alone?
He’d kissed her and perhaps he’d wanted to seduce her, and she’d turned him down. He must have been lusty and frustrated, and there were plenty of women here who would be delighted to satisfy him.
Portia went to the window.
The storm had broken overnight. She couldn’t see the sea for rain and cloud.
There wouldn’t be a boat coming from the mainland. She was trapped here for another day. She slumped down on the window sill—she who had braved the slums.
Lightning flashed, making her jump. The whole island lit up with cold white-blue light. In that burst of light, she saw a shape on the lawn—a long, dark shape. At once, she was plunged back into darkness. As she struggled to make sense of what she’d seen, thunder crashed. Like the gods playing cymbals, her mother used to say.
She thought she saw someone lying on the lawn in the rain. It must have been one of the guests. He must have passed out there—
Or he was dead. Like Viscount Sandhurst.
She waited. Another flash came and she strained to see. It was so brief, just for a second, but she was certain now. There was a man lying in the grass. Probably a drunken orgy guest. But what if he wasn’t?
What should she do? Get help, goose.
Yet another burst of lightning and she saw a man running out through the rain; then she jumped at an almost instant explosion of thunder. The storm must be right over them.
The man she’d seen running out had dark hair and he was tall. Her gut instinct screamed that it was Julian. The Duke of Sinclair, she meant.
But it could be someone else. There were other brunette men in the house. Still she hurried to her door, unlocked it, and headed for the stairs.
Portia reached the bottom and made her way through the dark house to the terrace doors. One was opened, snapping against the stone wall of the house, flung back and forth by the wind. She grabbed it and held it.
There were no lights on, and she should have had the sense to bring a lamp. A dark shape against the black rain-filled night sky, the man came in, staggering slightly under the weight of the apparently unconscious man he carried over his shoulder. He made his way to the settee. Another bolt of lightning in the background illuminated his face from the side.
“Sinclair!” she gasped.
His face was stark with shock and pain. “It’s Willoughby. He’s been attacked. Beaten badly.”
“Heavens. By whom?” She quickly moved toward him to help.
“No, Portia. Go back upstairs. Don’t come here. You shouldn’t see this.”
“I’ve dealt with violence before.”
“Nothing like this, I’ll bet.” He shouldered Willoughby’s limp body to the settee. Ignoring his warning, she went forward and around him and she got a glimpse of Willoughby. She let out a cry, then clapped her hand to her mouth to smother it.
His face . . .
It was all darkness. A strange circle of black and shadow. There were no features. There was nothing there.
Sinclair’s body loomed in front of her. His arm went around her, holding her up. Suddenly Portia found herself sitting a large wing chair—Sinclair had deposited her there. “I don’t understand,” she breathed. “Where is his face?”
Pain flashed over Sinclair’s face. Then she understood. “Someone did that to him? That’s awful. Horrible!”
For the second time that day she had a glass of brandy pushed into her hand. Sinclair hadn’t said a word. He’d just poured a brandy for her and pressed the plump balloon-shaped glass against her palms. She took one burning sip. It didn’t calm her. Nothing could.
“I’ll take you back upstairs,” he said. “It’s too late for him.”
“He is dead?” But given what she’d seen, she knew he must be. And if he hadn’t been . . . it would have been worse.
“I can’t believe this. Earlier tonight he was alive and . . . and. . . doing things in the drawing room.” She had no words to describe what he’d been doing in the drawing room. Not any words she could actually say. “Now he’s gone.”
“Sip the brandy,” Sinclair said.
“No, I think not,” she said as she put it down.
Sinclair had turned on a lamp and had removed Willoughby’s coat while examining him. Now he went back and laid the garment over Willoughby’s body, covering the destroyed face. Portia forced herself to get up and go over to help him. But she’d never seen such horrific damage inflicted on a human being, and her knees kept wobbling.
She had to stop and grip the chair. She wasn’t as strong and tough as she thought she was. It was an infuriating thing to discover.
For a moment, the sky brightened with lightning. Wind buffeted the house and rain slammed against the glass, as if trying to break in and invade.
Sinclair came and stood over her. He stripped off his gloves and tossed them aside. Warm, strong, his hand stroked her face. She should say no. Tell him to stop. But she couldn’t.
A second death in the space of hours. Suddenly, she needed to press tight against Sinclair. She turned his face into his chest. Strong and safe, his arms went around her.
She needed to be touched. She hadn’t experienced comfort for five years, not since Mother got very ill and confused.
Thunder came then. Delayed and fainter. The boom still made her gasp in surprise, but she knew the storm had passed them. It was going farther away.
At her gasp, he bent over her. He pressed his lips softly to the top of her head. Oh, what that did to her heart.
No, she had to stop this. She moved away. Spoke with the crispness of a school mistress. “I am quite fine now. I had a bit of a shock, but I am all right now. Do you need me to help you?”
“You need to sit. You are not fine. I’m not.” He directed her back to the chair, sat on the arm of the chair, beside her.
Large. Strong. Warm. Male.
She leapt up as if shot from a cannon. “I don’t need to be hugged and coddled. There are far more important things we must focus upon. Such as—who did this?”
“That is not for you to worry about. It is my fault you are involved in this—and I will make this right.”
“How is it your fault?”
“You were brought here as some kind of joke against me. Now this has happened—I don’t know who is responsible for this, but there’s a murderer on this island.”
“It is not your fault!” She cupped his face, feeling the scratch of stubble against her hands. She shouldn’t touch him, but he looked so white and shocked and in pain. He needed to be touched.
To her surprise, he drew her hands away. “Don’t. I’m not in the mood.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“I know what you meant. To make me feel better when I don’t deserve it. Protecting you is what matters to me, Portia.”
“Sinclair, for ten years I have looked after myself,” she argued. “I can do so now.”
The she saw something white on the carpet, near the settee. She stared in disbelief, already certain what it was. “Look. It’s another note.”
Sinclair bent and grabbed the paper. “Where did it come from?”
“It must have been with Willoughby. When you carried him, perhaps it fell.”
“It’s sealed with wax again.” He tore the paper open. She leaned over his arm to read.
A second sinner has paid for his crime. He will not be the last.
10
Crossing his arms over his broad chest, Sinclair drew his dark brows together in a frown. “If you won’t have the brandy, I’ll go down to kitchens and brew you tea.”
Despite the horror of the night, Portia had to smi
le. “You are a duke. Do you even know how to make tea?”
“I wasn’t always a duke, and I learned in my youth how to brew a cup of tea. For you, Portia, I’m more than willing to hoist a kettle and draw some water.”
He gave a gallant bow.
Her heart wobbled. Once she had felt so close to this man. Over the last ten years, she’d believed she had never understood him. Yet now she saw in him the young man she’d adored.
She shook her head again. “I am fine. I don’t need anything.” Except you, thought her traitorous heart. “But what is going on here? Does it mean someone killed both Sandhurst and Viscount Willoughby?”
Sinclair stood in the middle of the room, grinding his fist into the palm of his other hand. But she didn’t think he realized he was doing that—instead he was looking at Willoughby, a sad, pitiful shape covered by a coat. “I don’t know,” he said pensively. “I intend to find out.”
It was all he said, but Portia knew he had more thoughts. She could tell by the distracted way he answered her. It startled her to realize she knew this man. Ten years ago, when they were falling in love, he would tell her so many things. He had revealed how the duchess, his cousin, hated him. Revealed how awkward he felt being a duke, dealing with the business of the dukedom when he’d never been trained for it. How awkward he felt being in London. He’d told her that the only time he felt happy was when he was with her.
But that was in the past, no matter what he said now.
She almost touched his forearm. She stopped herself. “I can tell you have ideas—suspicions, Sinclair. You’re just not telling me. I believe I have a right to know, since I was kidnapped and brought here.”
He hesitated, then shook his head. “I have no idea what’s going on. Or what the notes mean. In truth, Willoughby was the man I suspected of orchestrating your kidnapping. Now, I don’t know. Someone did that to Willoughby.” He shook his head. “You should go to bed.”